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Conversations of Love

11.29.10 Posted in words to linger on by

BR Belletryst’s poem, Poet and Lyricist: A Love Poem, was published as part of Contributor Series 6: A Currency of Words in September 2010. His photography has appeared at the prompts page and at SPARK.

Conversations of Love

By BR Belletryst

Tonight I drove under the full moon,
no headlights.

Tonight I learned that love is damaged,
for me.
That things aren’t
what they seem.
That I might be hurt,
more than I might be a god.

Love is always broken,
things are never what they seem.
You are a god amongst us,
and pain is but a dream.

It feels so real,
to question and dismember
the feelings that I once preached
beauty of
and to feel them slip away.
Are they just words
that I once fought for?

To err is human and to question
is divine.
Question your convictions, else
they blind and prevent you
from learning;
Faith must be tested.

How can I love?
How could I trust, again?
What of forgiveness, and resentment?
I may have stabbed the one
who stabbed me
to death.
Angelic? I think not.

I can’t help but wonder,
why I can’t figure myself out.

Time heals all wounds
Ben & Jerry’s helps a lot.

Where would be the fun in figuring
yourself out? If either of us did that
then we wouldn’t have 
these conversations.

Maybe that’s why divinity comes
in pairs, in twos, and in great floods.
That their story be preserved
among themselves,
worshipers aside, they always get it
wrong anyways.

But who am I? God of what?
And who, you? God of empathy, or
ice cream wisdom?
That you should be able to answer what
I’ve found unanswerable,

Then, knowing who we are, separate,
who are we together?

Do we end the universe,
or do we create?

A writer’s poem, pencil, inspiration,
or the crumpled piece of paper?

All or nothing.
All and nothing.

Where do we divide?
Do we?
Are you yin, or yang?
What am I?

We are always what the other needs
I’ve observed.
We are divine and fluid and fabulous.
No matter distance or lifetime,
we are bound to each other.
Communication could cease
and we would still feel.

What I wouldn’t do for Djarum Black
and a bottle of Cabernet, now, though.

Do we just dance together,

Why can’t I stop this writing?
These questions come out just so.
Our fluidity? Does it encompass this?

Are we soul mates, or just gods?
I can’t stop writing, questioning.

The writing comes.
And fuels.
And won’t cease.

We write and dance and drift.
We are soul mates, lovers, and brothers.
We are fuel to our own fire.

Dismal, copacetic, exemplary
take your pick, we are all and none.

It’s so lonely, to be all and none.
To cling to nothing, to cling
to everything.

What is it? Why can’t I feel natural?
Why must I feel like questioning?

Why do I feel so unhuman?

I miss you. I miss this.

Tears and joy, you bring,
We gods of the new and of the old.
All ways are ours.

Those questions cannot be answered
Just know that I will always be here,
even if I am hard to find.

If my words don’t flow
and my mood is dark.
If I am stuck in the real and won’t
wander through thought with you,

call out my love, call out your Anteros.

Thank you,
my brother.
My teacher.
My love.

As always, I appreciate
your affections and patience.

Until next, we meet.
Until next, we speak.

I embrace you.

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